A Broken Vessel by Kate Ross

get it over slap off, afore the leers takes too much interest.”
    “The newspapers will be one too many for Mr. Harcourt. This is the kind of story they flock to—a fallen woman, a tragic death, a mystery surrounding the woman’s identity.”
    “I dunno, sir. The neighbours says Mr. Harcourt has some great guns for patrons: well-breeched tradesmen, parsons, even a gentry-cove or two. He’s counting on them to clap a stopper on the hurly-burly about Mary’s death.”
    “Is he?” But there may be rather more hurly-burly than you expected, Mr. Harcourt, Julian thought. “Dipper, I mean to go to the inquest, and I want you and Sally to come with me.”
    “You going to hand over the letter, sir?”
    “I can’t see that I have any choice. It will be rather awkward explaining how we came by it, but still, it’s evidence that might throw light on Mary’s death. We can’t in all conscience keep it back. All the same—”
    “Sir?”
    Julian shook his head. “There are things about Mary’s death that don’t make sense to me. They may all be explained at the inquest, but if they’re not—Well, never mind that now. The reason I want Sally to come is that I should like to know if whichever of those three men she stole the letter from is there, and, unless he turns out to be Avondale, she’s the only one who’ll recognize him. But tell her to wear a veil. It’s just possible we may have reasons for not wanting him to recognize her .”

CHAPTER
7
Mr. Harcourt Pours
Oil on the Waters
    T he Rose and Thorn was a neat, respectable eating-house near the refuge. The inquest was to be held in its large back parlour. Tables had been cleared away to make room for the coroner and jury. The numerous spectators sat on chairs and benches, or in booths along the sides of the room. Julian, Dipper, and Sally found a corner booth and sat down, looking about them.
    Harcourt was there, moving suavely among the crowd, with a becoming mixture of sorrow and disapproval. I regret that poor young woman’s death, but I am shocked and repelled by the manner of it, he conveyed. A group of dowdy matrons trailed after him, hanging on his every word. Julian recognized Mrs. Fiske among them. Many of the other spectators were stout, important-looking business or professional men and members of the clergy. These must be the wealthy and influential patrons Dipper had heard about.
    A couple of journalists stood by, idly kicking the wainscotting or cleaning their nails with penknives. Julian identified them by their expressions of mixed cynicism and curiosity, and by their evident habit of mistaking their trousers for blotting-paper. On the whole, though, Harcourt seemed to have been remarkably successful at keeping this business out of the newspapers.
    “Do you see any of your three men?” Julian whispered to Sally, who had been peeking out from under her veil.
    “No, none of ’em,” she whispered back. “If one of ’em comes in, I’ll tip you the nod.”
    There was a small stir as the coroner and jury entered. But to Julian’s surprise, the reporters were not looking that way. They were nudging each other and glancing toward the other end of the room, where a corpulent elderly man had just hobbled in on crutches. He had one foot bandaged, as if with gout. His head was bald and shiny on top, with tufts of white hair at the sides. His clothes were very plain, but, to Julian’s practised eye, impeccably tailored and costly. He wore an immense, old-fashioned gold watch and a gold-rimmed pince-nez.
    Julian had great faith in the instinct of journalists for knowing what was really important. While the coroner fussed over some papers and made a pontifical speech to the jury, he sent Dipper to find out from the reporters who the man on crutches was.
    Dipper conferred with them briefly and returned. “He’s Mr. Samuel Digby, sir. He’s a very warm cove, and a beak, and lives in Highgate.”
    Julian had heard of him. He was a retired wool